Lysara

Convincing Torrhen that she too was an unwilling migrant from a long-fading land proved far more difficult a task than she had first envisioned. For one, he was so assured in his belief that he was the only abnormality in the world, that the very concept of another traveller was entirely foreign to him. This… conviction led him to zealously bat away any innuendo she threw at him, even when her suggestions and references began to draw attention from her parents, cautious as they were of any change in her mental or emotional state. After a while, he actively began to avoid her, and any chance encounters in the halls of Winterfell were met with muttered excuses and hurried departures. It would've been innately comical had it not been immensely frustrating given the gravity of the matter.

Luckily, even though his denials and forced confusion rang as true as ever, Lysara could see that his conviction was wavering. Near two moons had waxed and waned, as had Torrhen's conviction. All that was left was a deliberate push, the act of pulling back the veil and casting the eyes into vicious sunlight.

The day had been unusually low-spirited, all thanks to a harsh coughing fit that had befallen Robb the previous night and had kept near everyone in the castle awake. While the fits were not uncommon by themselves, the sheer severity of the incident most certainly was. As such, dinner was a gloomy affair, with even the frequently chattering Torrhen keeping mostly silent, partly due to the events of the days, but mostly in an attempt to avoid ending up on the wrong side of Lady Catelyn's vitriol. A task he was failing at most magnificently. In fairness, that was less a result of any action of his own, and more because he presented an easy outlet for her repressed fear and worry.

This, however, presented an excellent opportunity for Lysara to convince her half-brother.

The fare was as it always was, nothing especially delightful but all positively filling. The conversation, meagre as it was had turned to the duties and responsibilities of nobility when she made her move.

"Torrhen?" The object of her interest jolted in his seat, clearly not expecting to be involved in the discussion, his face paling upon realising just who had addressed him. While Lady Stark generally did not go out of her way to be unkind to him, the own exception was when Lysara was found talking to him, an act her mother saw as dangerous and possibly subversive, what with the wanton and cruel nature of bastards. Lysara's own Septa Mordane had said as much, while warning her to stay away from him.

"Yes, Lysara?" His response was mumbled, and barely audible. Even still, Lady Catelyn saw fit to affix him with a glare that suggested great pain and even greater misery.

"I keep thinking about something that you said some time ago. It was when you were telling father about Valyria, or something." Their manner of speaking had been noted by near everyone in Winterfell, and by lords who had visited upon hearing of Lysara's newfound good health. While the invitation to Winterfell had ostensibly been about celebrating the good harvest, it served as a to dispel the doubts regarding her, from abject stupidity to hellish possession. Her father's idea had mostly worked, but even then, there were those who found themselves flinching away from her speech and mannerisms. Thankfully, the residents of Winterfell had become used to it quickly enough, partly thanks to six years of Torrhen doing much the same. Whispers of unnatural natures still floated about Winterfell; an occurrence Lady Catelyn had done her best to stop.

He blinked, confused. "What're you thinking about, then?"

Lysara affected an inquisitive expression, lips curling into a frown. "I don't quite remember, but I know it sounded strange." He was opening his mouth in response when she continued. "I know! You said you wanted a reee-pulik, or something like that."

If possible, he grew further paler. "I… did. You have questions about that?"

She took a moment to take a sip of milk, enjoying the tension rolling off of her half-brother. "I do. I thought of something yesterday and forgot to ask you." She deliberately paused until his hand reached for a glass before continuing, "Does the whole idea not come from Rome?"

The water spilt all over the table, soaking in some places into the weathered wood. A servant girl was quick to mop up the mess with a cloth, but the slight commotion woke Robb from where he had been fitfully slumbering against his mother's bosom. Lysara's younger brother was quick to make his displeasure known, with his shrill wailing penetrating every last darkened corner of the hall. Her mother immediately began the long process of calming him down, but the battle was clearly lost. The little lordling had been woken, and now bellowed his wrath to the gods.

And in the midst of hasty apologies and stammering pleas for non-existent mercy, Lysara Stark smiled. The closest ally gained.

Ser Rodrik Cassel

"Bastard!"

Theon's blade passed inches from his throat, a move that was met with a shout of warning from their instructor and a desperate leap backwards. Greyjoy immediately capitalized, hacking away the hastily assembled defence with brutal abandon and fierce joy. Each move was fast, too fast for the Bastard, who gave way with near every strike. An attempt to create space was batted aside with contemptuous ease and a thundering slash that would've broken ribs had it connected. Instead, it only sliced through air. What could've initially been called a dance was now reduced to an inevitable outcome. A fact that Theon was clearly aware of, given the savage grin on his face. He backed off, letting the bastard catch his breath so as to allow for a single flourish that put the child on his back.

He had expected the other to hang back, to relax in the momentary respite. Greyjoy lowered his guard, a taunt forming on his lips. It never quite got out, because rather than hang back, the bastard swept forward, thrusting right at the startled Theon's gut. It was instinctively guided away, but instinct did not protect him from the boot that slammed into the inside of his thigh, bringing him to his knee with a grunt. The wrist holding onto the blade damn sounded like it had shattered with the force of the blow. With no defence ahead of him and Greyjoy in too much pain to inflict a surprise, the round finished with a pommel smashing into a jaw, forcing from Theon a muffled scream of agony. Flat on his back, he conceded defeat.

"That's enough, Greyjoy. Get up." The command in Ser Rodrik's tone carried no ambivalence, a fact that Theon understood, scrambling to his feet. The two of them stood before their instructor, who carried a look of reluctant appreciation on his face.

"You did well. Pressing and not giving him the time to move was the right choice there, and it would've won you the match had it not been for that little bit of stupidity towards the end. Play with your enemy, don't respect your enemy, and you'll end up dead." Cassel turned to address his other charge.

"Boy." Torrhen looked back at the knight, tearing his gaze from the balcony that overlooked the yard, only to find himself being met by a frown.

"How many times have I told you, boy? And how many more times will I need to?" Torrhen looked up in embarrassment, his pale face reddening with blood. "He's bigger than you, he's heavier than you and he's got more reach than you. The only thing you've got is your speed and that trick of yours. You try and match him blow to blow and what happened there is what'll happen to you. Move. Don't meet his blade head-on, but slide past it. Let him hack at you all he wants; all you need is a single mistake to kill him. You understand?"

Torrhen stubbornly remained silent, an act that the knight did not miss.

"You don't agree boy? What would've happened if Greyjoy wasn't such a damn fool and hadn't backed off? What exactly would've stopped you from being skewered."

The bastard looked him in the eye and answered in a perfectly polite tone.

"I would've spat in his eye, Ser."

Torrhen

"Honestly," she huffed, "You can at least pretend to be meek and polite."

The alcohol stung, but not nearly as much as his broken heart. He told her as much, an utterance that was met with an expression that could dry the Narrow Sea.

"But I am polite!" Torrhen protested with an entirely sincere expression on his face. To anybody who did not know him, including his closest family, the look on his face would have been enough for most to pronounce innocence at best and naivete at worst. Unfortunately for Torrhen, Lysara was the one exception to that generality. She scowled in response, "That's enough. You know perfectly well what I mean and- stop moving!"

"It isn't exactly easy to keep still when you're being tortured. That's a very painful cut and you're just jabbing away at it. Mercy, woman. Please!"

She simply smiled and jabbed at the cut even harder.

The years had been exceedingly kind to Lysara, with her girlish features almost instantaneously transforming into the features of an exceptionally beautiful woman, with her flowing dark hair that reminded him of the dark winter night, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, perfectly rounded lips that were only bested by eyes of cerulean blue. Even now he stared at her, looking away only when she noticed and flashed him a quick smirk.

Yes, he might have been biased.

So effectively had Lysara Stark ensnared him that any hints of pain from her not-so-tender ministrations were soon forgotten, dispersing into the stone walls of the Maester's chambers. He was harshly forced from his musings by way of a discreet cough. Upon meeting her gaze, he flushed and looked away. While she could've made much more an issue out of it, the fact was that Maester Luwin was bound to return, having left to attend to Robb.

Torrhen opened his mouth before she beat him to it.

"Hush, now. If you start talking, we aren't going to stop and I'm already late for embroidery with Mordane."

He raised a brow in amusement. "Don't you mean Septa Mordane? My, my, Lysara Stark. Look how the bastard has corrupted you! To exorcise his malignance, you must recite a thousand verses from The Seven-Pointed Star. As opposed to the Six-Pointed Star. That text is heretical in the extr-"

He was effectively silenced by a very soft kiss.

And by the time that normal function returned to him, she was gone.

If anybody seems Out of Character, chalk it up to the ripple effect borne out the existence of the OC's.